Coppered

Long ago, in the first warmth of sun,
I left all my fair delights
in the hollow, empty lanes of Gor Gobindpur;
and thus I have no lament now.
 
The cast-off bin of memory
is all that remains for me to ruminate—
a pauper’s life in recollection.
Those who were with me at dawn
are no longer here;
they once spoke to me
of hope and of expectation,
and I dwelt long among them,
merciful in my heart.
 
I would repay their kindness
in the weight of paddy or of rice,
yet such is beyond my means—
for the fields are barren.
 
The labour was there,
and the body loved them,
yet I did not suffer them
to draw too near the precinct of my heart.
Sometimes by error,
or by the urging of a deep aversion,
I hastened to the great road of departure.
 
No impulse of wrath remains,
nor can hatred dwell in me.
Those who once lifted the hand of affliction,
who turned their backs—
in loving them I lost my way
again and again in the middle of the road.
 
Each moment was loud
with the insult to my being;
day and night together
I bore a smouldering grief toward life.
Yet no morning dawned
in the ancient tenderness of spirit—
only the weary roads stretched ever onward
into darkness,
and the earth beneath my feet
was copper-red.